Category: Experiences

First-hand accounts of launch tourism and viewing experiences.

Fifty-Two: A Wayward Birthday

posted on 3rd October, 2018 9:56 pm by

Ten Days in the Life of a Launch Rat

by Wayward Plane

(Originally published at WaywardPlane.com)

 

 

“I’ll be in Florida for your birthday,” Matoro promised me. Of course, that was when the launches were scheduled for August 2nd (my birthday) and July 31st (two days prior), and while we both knew the First Rule of Launch Rats very well (Rule 1: Everything Slips) somehow we weren’t paying much attention to that.

Then, of course, everything slipped – Parker Solar Probe first, then Merah Putih, then Parker Solar Probe again – and finally, we were looking at August 7th for Merah Putih, and August 11th for Parker Solar Probe. It hardly seemed worthwhile for Mat to come down earlier than that.

But, “I’ll be in Florida for your birthday,” Mat had promised me, and so when the Florida sun rises to scorch the Space Coast on the morning of my fifty-second birthday, there he is, parked and waiting outside my door. With Chick-Fil-A breakfast, even.

 

Central Florida is known for its variety of theme parks, but of them all, there’s only one place I want to be on my special day: Kennedy Space Center Visitor Complex. It’s the happiest place on Earth for a rocket-loving plane like me. Space, space, and more space; rockets here, there and everywhere. I don’t know all their names and histories, not even after all the tours I’ve overheard while doing laps through the rocket garden, but I love to sit in their shadows, gaze up at them stretching into the sky. Humanity’s wanderlust, etched into metal. A promise, a dream, forged into a smooth cylinder that seems somehow wrong just standing still.

“Let’s go see our girl,” Mat and I agree, as we assemble our respective wheels in the parking lot, and off we go.

 

Atlantis. She’s my favorite of the space shuttles, for no reason other than that she’s the one I’ve spent the most time with: gazing at her majestic lines, feeling in my soul the small stirrings of a being, not quite inanimate, who might be grounded but can never be truly stilled. Watching videos of old launches doesn’t convey the hugeness of her, nor her elegance and grace. The intro to the Atlantis exhibit absolutely nails it: a short dramatic re-enactment of the design and building of the shuttle, transitioning into an emotional, experiential piece portraying the Lady in flight. A swooping paper mock-up transforms into the shuttle, overlaid onto a screen that rises at the proper moment to reveal Atlantis perched at her 43.21° angle – a dramatic reveal that, even now, never fails to make my eyes well up with tears. “Atlantis,” proclaims the unseen announcer, “welcome home!” and as I nudge my scooter out into her exhibit hall, I am.

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here, and for a time I just drink in the sight, the feel of her. She’s been to space, she’s felt starlight on her skin, and I am deeply envious. The plane inside my psyche recognizes a kindred spirit. The person occupying my flesh suit longs for a space-faring body, instead. Lupi‘s here with us, too, and there’s something immensely comfortable and comforting about being in this space with people who understand some portion of this yearning, amidst so many tourists and casual onlookers who don’t understand the hunger, or the passion. We bypass the exhibits (having explored them before) and instead devote our attention to the Lady, to her sleek wings and massive engines and space-etched underbelly. She has stopped being a spaceship; she will never stop being astonishing, and beautiful.

 

On the way down, Mat and I wait for the great spiraling ramps to clear so we can hurtle down at full speed, racing each other to the bottom, and it feels a tiny bit like flying.

 

 

My birthday dinner that night takes place at Dixie Crossroads, a Titusville fixture known for a local delicacy: rock shrimp, which taste like lobster and exist only in a small area of southern U.S. waters. They are thus very Floridian, and very expensive, and delicious. I dine like a queen among launch rats and streamers, friends both old and new, celebrating not merely my birthday but also a year of being Floridian myself: of overcoming obstacles and my own worst fears to transplant myself here on the Space Coast. I’m not quite thriving, yet – but like the rock shrimp and the rockets, this is where I belong. Life, despite its difficulties, feels good. I nibble my tiny, expensive morsels of seafood, and I smile.

 

The days fly past, blur into each other. Matoro comes over to stream Friends Friday from my house on the 3rd, engaging in a battle of wits (and lashing tail) with Kitty, who is certain that he, his live stream and his computer are or should be her personal property. On the 4th, we go back to KSCVC, and the Sands History Museum in Port Canaveral, for more space and rockets and merchandise browsing and fun. The 5th is KSCVC again, this time with some of Mat’s friends, streamers from StackUp.org, and we visit the Apollo/Saturn V Center and gaze out at the launch pads in the distance. The 6th, mostly, is a long-overdue day of rest.

 

And then it’s the 7th, it’s Launch Day, and our world kicks into high gear.

 

We load up Mat’s car and head down to SR-401, the default “place to be” for night launches and most booster landings. We park, roll over uneven ground and through tall grass to the best location we can find. We set up: my cell phone tripod, Mat’s streaming rig, a table to hold our stuff. John Eric shows up with a cooler and a “nibbler platter” of cold cuts from Publix to snack on; Lupi and his dad arrive with brownies. It is a gourmet feast that turns our gathering into a party. Around us, spectators set up their own camps, on the bleachers under the lights or deeper into the darkness. Someone brings up the SpaceX webcast on a tablet so we can follow along. We watch, and listen, and wait.

There’s always the uncertainty: will it really happen? Will there be a delay, or a last-minute launch scrub due to weather, or unspecified technical difficulties? My personal nightmare: will a wayward plane stray into the no-fly zone, and leave me scrambling to fend off Twitter accusations of wrongdoing against my alter-ego? (The last time it happened, at the Antares OA-7 launch from the Mid-Atlantic Regional Spaceport in Wallops, VA, I was frantically busy for days.) Will the unthinkable happen, an explosion on the pad or in the air, and what would we do then? We don’t speak about any of this at length, referencing past or possible mishaps in furtive shorthand when we refer to them at all. Launch superstition is real, right down to the four-leaf clovers on every SpaceX mission patch, and we Launch Rats have our fair share.

The clock ticks ever closer to T-0. Matoro starts his live stream, and our little crew expands worldwide as his viewers tune in and join us. I wave over Mat’s shoulder to the folks I know on the other side of town, in Seattle, in the UK, in Australia. We talk to the stream, we chat amongst ourselves. We check the webcast, we check the time, we slap at mosquitos and check the time again. We wait.

 

And then a new star forms on the horizon, an orange glow blooming, slowly separating from the ground and rising, lighting up the sky, as the Falcon 9 lifts off.

 

 

It never gets old. It never gets old. There’s something about the sight of a human-built sunrise that defies comprehension, no matter how much rocket science you master. Humans are not supposed to create their own suns, and machines are not supposed to go up, and up, and up, until they vanish entirely into the sky. The parts of our brains rooted in our primitive past tell us that this is not the natural order of things, and rebels against the sight. This only makes the experience more magical. It’s not the natural order of things, it is a state of affairs that we have chosen to create: to transcend what is natural, to create a new normal, in which we fly unfettered beyond the very limits of our world. We watch – for the first or the fiftieth time – and are amazed.

Then the sound comes rolling in, growing and expanding like the light. It is a rumble, a growl, laced with a tantalizing crackle, and it speaks to us in a language more primal than words. Speaks to our souls, of a force and a power beyond reckoning. It tells us that there is something greater than our own small bubble, something more. People come to watch launches, but it is the sound that keeps us coming back.

We keep our eyes trained on the light of the receding rocket until we can see it no more. In the late-night stillness, the sound lingers, far longer than usual. We begin to pack up our things… and then, unexpectedly, off to our right, another sudden burst of light, this time coming down. Conventional wisdom holds that a booster landing on the drone ship out at sea is too distant to be seen from land, but there it is, the entry burn, clear and sharp. Expletives are uttered, amidst sounds of delight. It’s an unexpected and welcome treat, and something for which we’ll always remember the Merah Putih launch fondly. No two launches are ever quite the same, and this one has just become exponentially more awesome.

 

We pack up our things, and roll back along that uneven terrain. A CCAFS police officer shows mercy, and drives slowly behind us to block the lane of traffic so that Mat and I can roll down the paved roadway, instead. We say our farewells, knowing that it is only goodbye-for-now. For Launch Rats, there’s always another launch: it may be a few days distant, or a few months, but we know we’ll be back. That we’ll always come back for more.

Mat drives me home, and the conversation, as always, is an endless reprise of the launch, steered more by unity of experience than actual words. That launch. Right? And the sound… I know! And that entry burn! Right??? Lather, rinse, repeat, over and over, clinging to the last strands of the feeling for as long as we can. There’s always another launch… but whether a few months or mere days away, it can never be soon enough.

 

The next day, August 8th, we go to KSCVC again. I have no idea how. Merah Putih was a late launch, and I was up until at least 2 am; Mat, with an hour to drive after dropping me off, was surely up even later. Days of cumulative excitement and never-enough-sleep are beginning to take a severe toll on us both. But my annual KSCVC pass is set to expire soon, and this is the last time we’ll have the chance to hang out at our Happiest Place On Earth on this trip… and so we do. We roll through the rocket garden, loop around to gaze at the space-flown Dragon and Orion capsules. Mostly, we hang out with the Lady. Stay well, Atlantis, I tell her silently. We’ll be back soon.

 

And then it’s the 9th, and I wake up super-early, get myself dressed and out the door at a time of day when I’m usually sleeping, because today and the next are something special: I’ve been accepted to the NASA Social gathering for the upcoming Parker Solar Probe launch, and there is just no way I’m going to be late and risk missing this.

 

 

NASA Socials are run by NASA for certain designated launches and other events, to allow us social media folks press-like access to NASA facilities and personnel. There are always many, many applicants for the few available spots; I’ve applied before, but this is the first time I’ve been accepted. By luck or coincidence or I-don’t-know-what, Lupi also got in, and for days beforehand we’ve been obsessively checking and re-checking to make sure we’re ready: proper identification as required, clothing that conforms to the safety-related dress code (shoulders covered, long pants, shoes that cover our toes), batteries and power packs charged and ready to go. So we gather in the parking lot of the ATX Center on the morning of the event along with the other attendees, mingle and converse, caught up in our shared excitement. It’s a varied and diverse group: photographers, streamers, podcasters, educators, artists, even a published author. I usually have no problem with groups of people, but this time I find myself feeling a little out of my element. Hey, I’m just a Wayward Plane on Twitter; what am I doing here? I’m also the only person on wheels, which makes me feel even more obvious and out-of-place, and I am really, really glad that my friend Lupi is here, that I’m not alone. Still, I sequester myself in a corner and puff on my e-cigarette to calm my nerves until check-in time rolls around, then line up to show my ID and receive my bag of event-related swag and a name badge, bearing my legal name and online identity, proof that despite my sudden insecurity, I do in fact belong here.

 

 

Then security comes by with a dog to do a sniff check of our bags, then we’re loading on to the bus, and then we’re off: rolling down 405, past the Visitor Complex and through the gates into Kennedy Space Center proper.

 

The day begins with a mission briefing and Q&A session at the NASA News Center Annex building. We are introduced to our hosts, including the social media manager for KSCVC, who is very happy to meet us all, “and I know who you are, Wayward Plane!” which goes a long way toward soothing my newfound Imposter Syndrome. I may not be accomplished, or objectively important, but I am certainly known. I find myself thinking that this moment of recognition and validation is probably going to be the most personally significant part of the NASA Social for me.

I’m wrong… but I won’t know it for another day or so.

 

 

We learn about heliophysics, the study of the sun, and how it affects everything else in the solar system, down to global communications and the cellphones in our pockets. Philippe Ruiz tells us that the Parker Solar Probe mission began as a goal in 1958, before NASA even existed, and speaks of the challenges of creating a spacecraft that could function autonomously and survive in the sun’s unimaginable heat. Betsy Congdon demonstrates with a blowtorch how the probe’s heat shield will protect it from the sun. Dr. Thomas Zurbuchen stops by to speak with us, and relates the story of how he first met Dr. Eugene Parker, for whom the probe is named. An endless stream of information, all of it fascinating; I scribble notes that I will struggle to decipher later, and wish that I had a photographic memory so that I could retain it all.

Afterwards, the group strides out across a field of grass for a group picture by the old NASA countdown clock. I look at the height of the grass, remember how my scooter’s motor struggled with similar terrain a few nights before, and decide that perhaps this is a group photo I don’t need to be a part of.

 

 

Lunch is sandwiches from Subway at a cafeteria near the VAB. I check social media – as I’ve been doing all day; our raison d’etre is social media, after all. SpaceX’s rocket-catching barge, Of Course I Still Love You, has been heading back to Port Canaveral, and it’s looking like it should arrive not long after the NASA Social ends for the day. Mat’s never been in town for a barge return before, and is already heading down there. Lupi offers me a ride there after the Social with him and his dad, so I can go too. We share this information among our fellow NASA Socialites, because a rocket on a boat is not a sight to be missed, and a number of them make plans to head down as well.

After lunch, we make a brief stop to tour the Operations Support Building (no pictures, please) and then it’s off to the main event of the day: the NASA pre-launch mission briefing, televised on NASA TV. We take our seats on the left side of the room, the press on the right. We settle ourselves, prepare ourselves to be briefed. This is a sober, solemn, serious moment. We are sober, solemn, serious people.

And then they bring out the Parker Solar Probe beach balls.

 

Eventually, merriment fades back into composure; the mission briefing goes live, and the science talk begins. Dr. Z tells us about Dr. Parker’s effect on NASA’s missions past and present. Dr. Nicola Fox, wearing a dress emblazoned in a solar print and a pendant bearing a model of the Parker Solar Probe in approximate scale with the dress, describes how the probe will pass within the sun’s corona, at 3.83 million miles closer than any human-built object has ever been to the sun. Andrew Driesman, wearing a Parker Solar Probe necktie, describes the technology developed to handle the extreme heat and challenges of the mission. Omar Baez and Scott Messer speak about Delta IV Heavy; Kathy Rice tells us about the weather outlook for the launch. Questions are asked, and answered. I tweet as much of it as I can, retweet posts to fill in the gaps of what I can’t keep up with, and keep tabs on OCISLY’s approach toward Port Canaveral. Lupi asks the final question of the session, about the probe’s imaging capabilities.

And then we’re packing up our things, heading back to the bus, on our way back to ATX: day one of the NASA Social, now complete. Which means that it is now time to switch focus back to that other launch, and the barge carrying its first stage back to Port Canaveral.

 

I am not a confident driver, and driving myself back from Port Canaveral after dark is not an option. So we have hatched a cunning, if convoluted, plan: Lupi’s dad will drive us both there from the NASA Social (as they’re staying in that area anyway) where we will meet up with Matoro, who will then drop me back at ATX to pick up my car so I can drive it home. So instead of loading my scooter into the trunk of my Nissan, I stow it in the back of Lupi’s dad’s car, and off we go.

The fatigue was already starting to settle in on the bus to ATX, and by the time we get to Jetty Park, I’m feeling it full-force. I push it back: no time to be tired, there’s a booster to stalk. By the time we find Mat and head out onto the pier, we can see it on the horizon: lurking, waiting for the cruise ships to depart before making a close approach. Julia, my favorite booster stalker, passes by with her daughter; she swoops in and plants a kiss on my cheek, “gotta go, love ya, bye,” before hurrying down the pier to catch those prime photos. Lupi heads off after them to check out the view, comes back complaining about the high winds, while Mat sets up his equipment and goes live on Twitch. I take a few cellphone photos, dictate a post to Twitter (“Excuse me?!” Mat says incredulously, before realizing I’m talking to my phone), check the latest updates, try not to fall asleep.

The cruise ship departs, all oblivious majesty, and I wonder briefly if any of the tourists even notice the marvel of modern technology floating nearby. It heads off to wherever cruise ships go when they’re not in port, some fabulous tourist destination without rockets, no doubt (why are you leaving, when you’re already in the best place there is?) and as it leaves, the tug and its barge begin their approach. They move faster than you’d expect, once they start moving, and before too long the barge and its burden are moving past us into the port proper. And then… a stampede: people dashing down the pier, rushing to set up their next shots, and heaven help the unwary soul who gets in the way. It’s the Running of the Photographers, and they are far more ruthless in their quest for the perfect shot than any bull stalking the sidewalks of Pamplona.

We relocate as well, for better views of the barge and booster coming past, capturing the experience in photographs and live on stream. Once it passes us, there’s another, more leisurely rush; next stop for the barge and booster is its regular berth in port, everyone knows where that is, and that there’ll be time aplenty for more photos once it’s there. Julia stops by again to say hi, and John Eric calls to see what our plans are, and Mat wraps up his livestream, approximately all at once, and then we’re off again, following the group to our next stop.

More photos. More chatting with friends. I’m very tired, now. We meet John Eric at Fishlips; my budget says snack, but my body says steak, and so I listen to my body’s desperate cries for protein, now, please, and dive into that hunk of red meat like the ravenous thing I am. There’s a storm coming in, the way Florida storms do, all ominous black clouds and flashes of lightning at odds with a still-clear blue sky just across the way. Mat captures the scene for posterity. We finish our meal, chat for awhile with Mat’s friend Sawyer, manage to get to Mat’s car before the rain and lightning begin in earnest. We drive back to the ATX Center. I unload my scooter from Mat’s car and manage to get it into my trunk with arms whose muscles suddenly feel like limp noodles. I drive back to my house, with Mat tailing me up U.S. 1 as a hedge against my anxiety about driving in the dark. Park in front of my house. Drag myself inside.

Kitty greets me with all the vociferous joy of a house-cat who has very much missed her usually house-bound mama, and oh, hey, Mama, where is my dinner, nao plz? I am an obedient mama; I feed my Kitty, I snuggle her, I scritch her itchy little head. I dig through my bag of NASA swag to find the pouch of astronaut ice cream they so kindly included, and scarf it down. My mind, not having read the memo from my bone-weary body, is still wide awake; I catch up on tweets I’ve missed, answer a few emails, mess around a little with the song I’ve been working on since my birthday. I like this song a lot: it feels, to me, like joy, like the laughter of a wayward plane doing reckless loops in mid-air, like the skipping beat of an exuberant heart.

I decide to name the song Fifty-Two.

 

And then it all catches up to me at once; I set five alarms in two different places, fall into bed, draw Kitty into my arms for bedtime cuddles, and am instantly asleep.

 

 

Then it’s morning, and I’m off and moving again.

Day two of the NASA Social starts even earlier than the first, and begins at the Vehicle Assembly Building. I’ve passed by innumerable times on the KSCVC bus tours, but I’ve never been inside, and knowing the factoid about how it is the largest one-story building anywhere doesn’t prepare me for how huge it is. There’s a guide telling us stuff about the building, but I can’t hear too well, and don’t want to nudge my way through the crowd to the front, so I content myself with appreciating the sheer size of the place, and the history of it, knowing that I can catch up on what I’ve missed through the tweets and posts of my fellow Social-goers later. Then we head off to the massive crawlerway, to get up-close-and-personal with one of the massive crawler transporters that’s moved spaceships from the VAB to the launch pads for decades… The crawlerway is lined with river rocks, to prevent sparks that might cause issues for the spaceships being transported (explosions are bad, mkay) and what this means for me, personally, is that my scooter is a no-go, my cane is useless, and walking is difficult and perilous. I cling to Lupi for dear life, but in the end, the effort of remaining upright is just too much; I sit down at the edge of the crowd, and focus my attention on the rocks beneath us. I’ve passed the crawler way on a dozen dozen KSCVC bus tours, but never been this close, and the crush patterns of the rocks are endlessly fascinating to me. I’m content to let others balance on the slippery stones and listen to the information being imparted as I enjoy my own unique perspective and, y’know, not have to worry about falling down.

Our next stop is LC-39B, the launch pad which SLS will launch from some years hence. I opt to not make Joe, our ever-helpful bus driver, go to the effort of unloading my scooter yet again… mostly because I fear that the temptation to race at top speed down that massive slope would be irresistible, and probably end in tears and maybe a broken bone or two. Instead, I limp around the pad, enjoying the sensation of standing on an actual launch pad, and savoring the view, and really, really wishing that I’d stopped for fast-food breakfast on my way to the Social that morning because lunch time cannot come soon enough for me…

 

So naturally, the bus gets stuck.

It takes awhile to get it unstuck, and I’m feeling vaguely responsible (because, y’know, Wayward Plane; chaos-bending is sort of my thing) and then finally, finally we’re off to the promised land of lunch, restrooms, and an approved smoking area where I can vape to my heart’s content. Naturally, the moment I head outside with my vape, it starts to rain; I’m in the mood to not care, but I fear for my scooter’s electrics in the rain, so I inhale nicotine at top speed and duck back inside. Lupi and I had placed our lunch order via the Subway app to have it ready faster, so of course it had the opposite effect and we only got our sandwiches as the lunch period was drawing to a close… so I end up wolfing down my foot-long on the bus as we head off to the next stop: the 45th Space Wing’s Weather Squadron.

They bring us into their command center, a room filled with screens and readouts and displays, and tell us how they monitor the weather closely to be best aware of the precise conditions in and around each launch. They talk about Launch Elbows, and we exchange puzzled looks, until it’s revealed that the actual term is Launch LWOs: Launch Weather Officers. They talk, and I… am so interested, and yet so, so weary. It’s been a long, tiring day, and a long, tiring day before that, and a long, tiring week ahead of those, and it’s all been wonderful, but I’m thoroughly exhausted. The amount of energy I’ve expended in the last two days alone easily surpasses the amount I use in the average month; I’m running on fumes and not enough caffeine, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can keep going. Just a little more, I tell myself. The day’s almost over. You can do this.

 

And then.

And then.

 

Y’know, I don’t know how I missed it. I honestly don’t. I mean, it was right there in the schedule, from the very start. Friday, August 10 (L-1) Activities: 2:00 pm – Tour Atlas Space Operations Center. Right there, in front of my face, the whole time. And yet, it didn’t sink in… I didn’t really understand what that meant…

 

Atlas Space Operations Center.

Atlas V Space Operations Center.

ULA Atlas V Space Operations Center.

 

…Allow me to digress for a moment.

 

In January of 2017, I was not in a good place. I was stuck in Arkansas, in a place where I didn’t want to be, a life that I didn’t want to live, without family or friends or any type of emotional support. I’d made a bunch of decisions that seemed right at the time but had turned out to be very wrong, and I had no confidence in my ability to course-correct. The one thing I still had, my love of watching rockets launch, was a thing I could no longer travel to do; all I had were webcasts, and memories, and bitter regrets. My world had become very dark, and very, very small.

And then one day I was watching a launch webcast – the only light in my dark world – and there arose the dreaded call of HOLD HOLD HOLD, signifying a problem with the launch, and halting the countdown.

Now, if this had been any other launch provider, there would have been a few businesslike social media posts detailing the reason for the launch hold in terse terms. But this launch provider was United Launch Alliance – ULA – and their relationship with social media is… significantly different from most.

The CEO of ULA, Tory Bruno, tweeted, “OK, @WaywardBoat, where are you?!” referring to the Twitter account claiming the identity of a previous range-violating boat. The ULA corporate account tweeted back, “He’s off the hook. Was an airplane this time.”

And, sitting there in my chair in my dismal little world, I thought to myself, “…Oh, what the heck.”

I created a Twitter account. Chose the name @WaywardPlane. And tweeted at Tory Bruno, “Whoa, sorry, dude. My bad.”

If it had been any other launch provider, my comment would have been ignored. But ULA’s relationship with social media is significantly different from most… and so Tory retweeted my post, with the comment, “OK. Just don’t let it happen again.” Followed, in close order, by a tweet from the corporate account: “Everyone, meet @WaywardPlane.”

 

It was a brief, cute social media moment – an insignificant exchange, over and done with in a minute or two, ultimately of no real relevance or import in the grand scheme of things.

It changed my life.

 

I got likes, retweets, responses from the Space Twitterverse. I answered those responses, and retweeted them in turn. Gained followers, began to interact with those followers. Got to know other rocket and space parody accounts, started chatting with them. Over time, I made friends. The Wayward Plane persona gained momentum, and I latched onto that and kept it going. It was the only positive thing I had in my world, and so I was determined to make the most of it, to nurture it and let it grow however it might. I determined that I could serve a nobler purpose, if I chose – to tweet and retweet space-related things, to help make space science and rocket things more visible, and more accessible to a greater range of people, folks who might be intimidated by the more sciency-types, but less so with a silly Plane like me – and so I set about doing that. I kept gaining followers. I began to gain confidence. I started to think about relocating to Florida, “maybe, someday,” and the more I thought about it, the more real a possibility it seemed. Seven and a half months later, I turned my back on my former life, packed up Kitty and computer and a handful of belongings in my car, and turned that possibility into reality.

I transformed my life. I transformed myself. I became the Wayward Plane. I became happy.

 

And all of it, every last bit of that transformation, traced back to the moment when a launch provider and its CEO decided to interact with, and thus elevate, a random smart-ass on Twitter.

 

I literally owed ULA my life – not the flesh and blood, but the joy of it, and the wonder, and the immense happiness of finally, finally being my truest self, in the one and only place I’d ever actively wanted to be – because without their actions, without their presence in my world, none of it would ever have happened.

And now I’m going to go and visit them.

Holy crap.

 

Just like that, the fatigue disappears. My face acquires a smile that, if converted to propellant, could easily launch a number of cubesats to low earth orbit. My inner voice goes straight to capslock, where it will remain for several hours. OMG ULA OMG ASOC OMG OMG OMG!!!!!

Because this is where it all began, for me. It’s the Delta Space Operations Center that’s the center of activity tonight, for the Delta IV Heavy launch, but this is where my story began, eighteen and a half months earlier, when a wayward plane scrubbed an Atlas V launch; I’ve come full circle, and it is incredible, and poetic, and perfect.

The social media manager introduces herself to us, and it hits me: this is the person who’s half the reason I’m here right now. Holy crap. Tentatively, I nudge my scooter over and introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Wayward Plane…?” not quite sure what sort of response to expect.

Her face lights up. “You’re Wayward Plane?! Hey,” to a co-worker, “this is Wayward Plane!” and immediately my mind splits into two parts:

The tiny kernel of rational mind, saying, Well, of course she would recognize your name, you’ve interacted online on numerous occasions, it’s perfectly sensible that she would…

And the rest of me, awash with giddy glee, shrieking silently: OMG, THEY KNOW ME, THEY’RE HAPPY TO SEE ME, HOLY CRAP, AAAAAAAAAAA.

I don’t remember a lot of the details of the visit, to be honest. I only remember happiness. The brilliant joy of looking down into the Launch Control Center, as I’d only done before in webcasts, and then rolling down the aisle of consoles, just soaking in the feel of it. Listening to John Casani telling us about the ICPS, and taking a thousand photos, not to tweet but purely for myself, to pore over later. Taking photos of all the things, taking photos with all the things, feeling my face start to hurt from the smile that would. not. go. away, and not caring. Hearing one of my fellow Social-ites comment that they hadn’t seen me this animated throughout the rest of the NASA Social, and knowing that it would take far too many words to explain why this place, these people, mattered so much to me – words that I can’t possibly hope to find, when the majority of my mind is an incoherent whirl of OMG, HOLY CRAP, AAAAAAA. Scrutinizing all the plaques lining the walls, each one commemorating a successful launch, to find the one that mattered most to me: SBIRS GEO-3, the launch whose scrub provided my origin story. Loading back onto the bus afterwards, thinking, this is the best, this is the most amazing thing ever, nothing about this NASA Social except maaaaaybe the launch could hope to be any better than this.

 

And then.

AND THEN.

 

The last item on our daily agenda reads, “Space Launch Complex 37 Pad Photo Op”, and so off to the launch pad we go. Not too close, mind you, not nearly as close as the media folks, who are delightedly posting their rocket selfies all over Twitter – but close enough. Certainly, closer than I’ve ever been to a rocket primed for launch. In any case, on Launch Day, it doesn’t matter who has what type of access; we’re all space geeks, sharing the same insanity, the same joy and wonder. We pile out of the bus and ogle the Delta IV Heavy, in all his glory. We take photographs, we take our own rocket selfies.

A car drives up. It doesn’t look like an official vehicle. Some people get out. A familiar face.

It’s.

Wait.

WHAT.

My legs have stopped hurting. Fatigue, what’s that, I don’t even remember. The smile on my face, converted to propellant, would get a twenty-ton payload to, easily, Jupiter. The capslock in my head goes to eleven.

 

And Tory Bruno, CEO of ULA, comes strolling over to greet the NASA Social group.

 

I stumble over to him, drawn to his orbit like the rogue planet I am. I don’t even know what to say. I fall back on standard courtesy. “Hi, I’m Wayward Plane,” I manage to get out.

“I know!” he says with a smile, and shakes my hand.

Rational mind: Well, of course he does; you’ve tweeted selfies, he’s no doubt spoken with his social media folks…

Rest of me: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

We chat for awhile. I say things, hopefully in a somewhat coherent manner. Maybe they’re not, I don’t know. I’m not especially worried about it. He knows my origin story; he knows why this matters. It’s all good. I have to get a photo with him, of course. I fumble with my phone for a moment before realizing, no, this has to be a good photo, better than whatever selfie-shot I might manage. Lupi comes to my rescue. Reminds me that I have Wayward Plane stickers. I rummage one out of my bag and give it to Tory; he holds it up as Lupi snaps the photos. The grin on my face threatens to engulf the known universe in its glow.

Then I detach myself from his orbit, because everyone deserves a chance to bask in the awesomeness of Tory Bruno, and watch as he makes the rounds, finding time for everyone and being generally wonderful. The adrenaline wears off, and I struggle to stand. I look at Delta IV, then back at Tory. I think of an old Talking Heads song, and I ask myself, well, how did I get here? But I already know the answer. Rockets, and launch providers, and social media, and friends, and what a long, strange trip it’s been.

 

The glow lasts until I’m almost all the way home. Fatigue, thankfully, doesn’t start to set in until I’m already back in my computer chair. By then, Hunter and Mat are on their way over. Pre-launch staging at my place is a long-standing ritual – though usually I’m headed to the launch along with everyone else. Not this time, though: this time, they’re going to SR-401, while I’m headed for the much-coveted NASA Causeway viewing, inside CCAFS. I’m almost sad about that, because there’s never enough time to spend enough time with friends… but not too sad, because privileged rocket launch viewing is something special, too rare and too amazing to be scorned. I give and receive hugs, see them off on their travels – early, to get a good spot at 401; they go fast – and settle back into my computer chair, waiting for it to be time to leave for the ATX Center.

The time passes, more quickly than I’d expected it would. By the time Lupi and his dad come to pick me up, Hunter and Mat are already in position at 401 and fueling is underway. Everyone’s ready, or readying, for the launch. We NASA Socialites gather at ATX as we have for previous days’ events, but this time there’s an undercurrent of tension, of excitement, that there hasn’t been before. This is the main event, after all: what we all came here for, what we’ve all been waiting for. The curtains have parted, revealing Delta IV Heavy primed and waiting for the show to begin. The star of the show, Parker Solar Probe, is ready to make her debut. It’s time.

Once more, we board the bus and roll over the bridge, past the Visitor Complex, and through the gates into Kennedy Space Center. It’s crowded, now; there’s stop-and-go traffic, and checkpoints, the whole way through. The buzz of conversation inside the bus rises and sharpens in tone. I find myself worrying, illogically, that we’ll be delayed and miss the launch, even though we have plenty of time. The launch has been pushed back an hour, so we have even more time than originally anticipated, but still I’m anxious. We arrive at our designated viewing location, get settled, get set up – the excitement builds – and then…

 

The word goes out. The launch is scrubbed for the night.

 

Tweets go out, explaining and clarifying the situation. Tory enumerates the issues that they’ve faced so far in today’s launch. Chris G. states the specific cause for the hold that pushed us past the launch window for this evening. We’re told that they’re going to try to launch again the following night, and the NASA Social coordinators ask for a show of hands: who can make it to the new launch time? Most of our hands go up. A few unlucky souls are slated to return to their homes in the morning, and can’t stay…

I think of my own people. Lupi’s in town on holiday with family, and will be here for another week, but… Hunter drove three hours down to the Space Coast to catch tonight’s show. Matoro has school starting in a couple of days, and a twelve-hour drive to get back home. Will they be able to stay for the rescheduled launch?

 

And the texting begins.

 

I offer Hunter crash space at my place for the night – he has an open offer to crash at mine, on any launch day, but I figure it’s worth saying again. He has responsibilities that require him to be home, though, and probably cannot return. Dangit. He’s already on his way home; I wish him a safe journey.

Mat doesn’t know what he’s doing yet. Staying for the launch reschedule would mean he’ll have to drive back home immediately afterwards, twelve hours of driving on little sleep, and it’s always possible that there’ll be another scrub… which would mean driving twelve hours on little sleep and bitter disappointment. Not staying means leaving now, or a few hours from now, and withstanding the bitter disappointment with the knowledge that if he’d chosen to stay a little longer, he might have seen the launch after all. The situation is made worse by the fact that he was unable to maintain a good enough connection to stream tonight’s launch scrub, and might have no better luck with tomorrow’s, due to the volume of cellphone traffic. It’s a terrible set of choices, with the potential to go badly either way, and even the best-case scenario is going to take a toll.

We arrange to meet for breakfast, because if he decides to leave for home before the launch, this will be my last chance to see him on this trip, and either way, I reckon the best thing I can do right now is offer him the chance to rant, and be understood.

 

It’s a part of being a Launch Rat, and the worst part of the deal: endless preparation, spending time, effort and money, on an event that might or might not happen on schedule, or at all. Launch scrubs happen – it’s expected. But that doesn’t make it any better when they happen. I’m in a privileged position, here, because I live on the Space Coast… because I missed enough launches because of scrubs, or simply not being able to go, and I determined that I was not going to miss any more. Sadly, not everyone can uproot their lives to live where the rockets are. So we plan as best we can, always knowing that this could happen, the worst-case scenario, where life demands that you leave before the rocket does… and as the old PSA goes, “knowing is half the battle”, but that never makes it any less bitter and painful when your worst fears come true.

We get breakfast sandwiches at McDonalds, he drops me off at my place, and we say our farewells, still not knowing if this is the final one. An hour later, Mat texts me to let me know that I managed to drop my NASA Social badge in his car – so we’ll be seeing each other again regardless, but still I’m not sure if he’s staying for the launch, nor am I sure if he’s decided yet himself.

I fall asleep. I wake up after four hours, exhausted but unable to get back to sleep. It’s Launch Day, for the second time. I remember that oh, yeah, I met Tory Bruno yesterday, and my face hurts anew from smiling. I get on Twitter, as one does, and catch up with the latest news as best I can. I re-check my launch knapsack – tripod, folding chair, charger, power pack, chewing gum – and resolve to add a newly-chilled bottle of water before I go. I rummage through my wardrobe and find another long-sleeved t-shirt and long leggings to wear tonight, to hopefully help ward off mosquitos. I cook myself a steak; if I can’t get enough sleep, I can at least get some protein in me to keep me going. Lupi lets me know when he and his dad will be coming to pick me up.  Mat comes by to drop off my NASA Social badge before heading back to 401 – he’s decided to stay for the launch, which is not really a surprise to me at all – and we head out to meet his friend Sawyer for dinner. I get dropped back at my house with enough time to finish my preparations, do another round of tweets and retweets, and give Kitty some cuddles and scritches. Kitty seems subdued and morose: she’s used to Mama being home constantly, and for the past ten days I’ve been out nearly all the time. Soon, Kitty, I tell her. This will all be over soon.

And I want to be sad, because this is almost the end of a wonderful, amazing period of time in my life… but honestly, I’m ready for the madness to be done with. For awhile, at least. Anyway, I can’t be sad, because it’s Launch Day, and this is what I live for…

 

Then it’s time, once again it’s time, and I grab my things, rattle off one last quick Tweet, and am out the door again.

 

The crowd that gathers at the ATX Center is a little smaller tonight, and a little more cautious in its exuberance. We’ve lived through one scrub already, and who’s to say there won’t be another? The absence of some of our number is sobering. Many of the remainder, who have managed to change plans for this launch, can’t extend it to a third attempt. But we rally. We wait through the security check, we board the bus, we arrive at our viewing location. And here we go again.

 

Things are looking better, this time. The weather has improved, to only a 5% chance of violation. The go/no-go poll proceeds without a hitch. Time seems to fly by. I get my cellphone camera ready; my video will not approach the quality of those taken by actual media, but at least I can capture the moment in some limited way.

And then it’s status check… and then the countdown… 4… 3… 2… 1…

 

 

The sky turns bright. The rocket rises into the clouds, setting them afire with light; tears through them, ascending. And then, the sound…

I’ve never had the sound reach me so quickly. Never heard it so LOUD. It fills my ears, reaches into my chest and grabs hold of me. Shakes me, hands and heart and soul. I’ve never felt anything so big as this, so wholly consuming. So much power, and such defiance. Take that, gravity. Look at what we puny humans can do. The light goes up and up, seemingly overhead, until it vanishes entirely, and still the sound remains. A low rumble, lingering, echoing, resting over the world like a thick blanket of wonder, amazing, magnificent.

I’ve seen so many launches, now, that I’ve lost track of the number, and this is easily, easily the best one I have ever experienced.

 

Somehow, I managed to track the launch on my phone camera until it journeyed past the range the tripod could accommodate. I have no memory of doing this. My hands fumble to get my belongings packed away into my bag, all muscle memory and no thought; I’m still straining my eyes to catch the last glimmer of light, straining my ears to catch that last wisp of fading sound. We board the bus. I manage a few incoherent tweets, retweet others doing the same. But no amount of words, no quantity of capslock and emoji, not even photos and videos can capture the launch adequately. A rocket launch has to be experienced to be understood.

 

Naturally, a night like this can’t just end. We gather at Tastee Donuts on US 1 in Titusville, which opens early and offers a plethora of varieties of freshly-made donuts. I get half a dozen, for breakfasts yet to come. We take over several tables, open up our laptops and cameras, begin sharing our experiences, photos and videos. Matoro joins us for the recap before taking off on his own epic journey home. Our gathering catches the attention of a random passerby, who joins in our chatter and shares his own past launch experiences, because this is the Space Coast, and the normal way of things. Already we’re getting updates, that the Parker Solar Probe is doing well on its journey to the Sun. Finally, Tory Bruno posts the tweet that signifies a successful mission – ULA’s 129th in a row. It’s a fine ending to a great night, to a great week and a half of good friends and rockets and joy.

We say our farewells – for now; until next time – and we go our separate ways.

 

 

It will take some time before I recover from the past ten days. I will sleep for 35 hours, with a few brief periods of wakefulness in between; my exhaustion will continue for far longer. My health problems mean that an effort like this, extended over so many days, will still be taking a toll on me for weeks to come.

 

Was it worth it?

Oh, so much.

 

I’m a Launch Rat. It’s more than a website name or a cute catch-phrase; it’s a state of being, a way of life. I exist for the roar of the launches and the laughter of friends, and dive through the space between times with breath held, waiting for those moments when I can come up for air. I’ve spent the last ten days commemorating a birthday I never imagined I’d live long enough to see, in a place I came to by the sheerest accident of fortune and will, alongside the best company I could ever have hoped for, with the fire of the most spectacular candles anyone could dream of.

 

I’m happier than I’ve ever been before.

 

And I’m fifty-two.

–Wayward Plane
28 September 2018

 

Experiencing Falcon Heavy

posted on 17th September, 2018 2:39 am by

The second reason to see a live rocket launch is the crowd. Their energy is irreproducible. Humanity cares about this. Ten minutes before launch, the cheering at Kennedy Space Center starts in ripples.

We all shuffle around anxiously, fussing over the perfect spot. I pull up Google Maps and try to triangulate the exact direction it will come from. I get pretty confident. But I know it won’t matter after the first five seconds. From seven miles away, we’re all getting pretty much the same view. I put my phone away.

It’s five minutes away, and John Insprucker comes onto the webcast. I’ve never heard him so happy. He gives a review of the mission, but we know what’s going to happen. We know what we came here to see. Despite the giant screen and the big speakers, he’s just another one of the crowd, here to celebrate with us.

There’s nothing to think about now. I watch the clock and wait. T -1:00. I remember to start the decibel meter on my phone. I put my phone away for the last time. We stare and watch. The crowd can’t handle it anymore; we start to count down.

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I ♥ 🚀

posted on 12th March, 2018 7:53 pm by

I love rockets.

I love rockets because they are shiny, and bright, and loud.

I love rockets because with every launch they carry humanity’s hopes and dreams and future a little bit closer to the stars.

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To Bennu and Back, or How I Became A Launch Rat

posted on 8th March, 2018 12:35 am by
OSIRIS-REx, launching on an Atlas V 411 from SLC-41 on 8th September 2016, as seen from the LC-39A gantry. Photo by Lupi.

OSIRIS-REx, launching on an Atlas V 411 from SLC-41 on 8th September 2016, as seen from the LC-39A gantry. Photo by Lupi.

It was the first week of September when my family descended upon Cocoa Beach for one last hurrah of summer. We’d gone twice prior that year: once for a beach week in July, and a short trip to watch NROL-61 and surf. I had been hoping beyond hope that the second launch I got to witness would be a Falcon 9, with the AMOS-6 launch scheduled for the night we arrived. The second launch scheduled for that week, OSIRIS-REx, was in my eyes a bonus, an afterthought. I didn’t know anything about it, and my first Atlas launch had been a let-down, leaving me less excited for it than I was for Falcon.

That focus changed September 1st, the day before we climbed into the car. Space Twitter erupted with reports of an explosion at Pad 40, followed by USLaunchReport’s notorious video capturing the fiery affair. This was a bit disappointing at the time, but accidents and delays happen in spaceflight on a regular basis, and I still had another launch to look forward to! I just happened to know a lot less about it, or what I was an amazing experience I was in for.

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